


Conversations and suspicious minds

by finlyfoe



Category: Homeland
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Coming of Age, Dogs, Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Father Figures, Gen, Late Night Conversations, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Past Relationship(s), Post-Canon, Teenage Rebellion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-08-31 12:42:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8578981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finlyfoe/pseuds/finlyfoe
Summary: NEW: Chapter 5: First outer circle of hellwritten for the post-6.12-fic-calendar on LJThey love each other - but that doesn't solve everything.So: What kind of drama or comedy might be going on after the eventual happy ending and fade out?The issues of a family slightly out of the ordinary and their way of interacting.Post-s.8. Parts of it very post.





	1. Saturday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It’s been ages since we’ve spent any time together, dad, just us I mean... It's always the twins or mom around... it will be fun. We can talk about all sorts of stuff…"  
> Talk? – Peter gives Frannie a **very** concerned look. What is she up to? ****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you koalathebear for beta-reading :-)

I.

It’s still early when they come home from their morning stroll, Peter Quinn and Flynn, dawn just breaking -  but the house has already been turned into a pancake-parlor, smellwise.

Franny, pink cheeks, pink apron, standing in the kitchen and watching over the pan, looks up when Flynn barks a short morning greeting, and smiles at Peter.

"Five minutes till breakfast, dad!"

The whole place looks a mess, empty packaging – milk, flour, sugar -  and egg shells are spread over the kitchen counter, batter is spilled over the tiles and on the floor. Flynn is delighted and quickly starts licking up an unexpected breakfast from the floor before her master might tell her to stop.

She needn’t worry – Peter Quinn has other priorities right now.

16-year-old girls don't get up early on Saturday unless there's a reason. He's surprised, he’s overwhelmed – and slightly suspicious as to her motives. There have been many arguments between mother and daughter these past weeks…

"Wow, Frannie.... need a hand?"

The girl’s pink cheeks get even pinker. "No thanks, I got it all covered. You sit down and enjoy."

So he does.

Obviously she didn't bother to tidy up the table in the living-room, everything - the mail, magazines, books, tablets – is simply shoved together so she could put down the two plates.  They'll have to clean up before Carrie gets back… - Peter takes a sip of coffee and nearly chokes on it – looks like she's made a _very_ rough guess of measurements.

He gives Frannie a smile when she comes back carrying the fry pan.

"You know what", she goes, serving out the pancakes in her sloppy Frannie way - the pancakes always at risk of ending up on the floor - "guess I come along with you guys today."

"Sure…" One syllable is not enough to let on his surprise, but she gets it.

“It’s been ages since we’ve spent any time together, dad, just us I mean... the twins or mom are always around... it'll be fun. We can talk about all sorts of stuff…"

Talk? – Peter gives her a concerned look. What is she up to? God, didn't she have a hickey two weeks ago, after some birthday-party? What if she wants to know his opinion on this or the strange behavior of a teenage-boy? He hasn't got a clue about the motivations of guys like that, his own life-experience so different from those pampered, well-brought up kids.

"We could go Christmas-shopping first, just the two of us, and we'll take Flynn for a nice long walk afterwards, what do you reckon?!" She smiles at him in a very Mathison-way which absolutely rules out any possibility of a no.

Peter can't figure what's worse – having a "talk" or Christmas shopping. But “Yeah, sounds like a plan” he replies, accepting his fate with resignation. He's always willing to do what it takes for his teenage-daughter.

Near daughter.

 

II.

One hour later, her arm tucked into his, she whirls him through the shopping mall with its pre-Christmas glitz.  They browse in a sock shop and a jeweller’s and a bookstore. They stop at L’Occitane because Frannie adores the smell of their soaps and gels and lotions. Inside, she picks up one item after another while Peter throws shocked glances at the price-tags.

After three, four more shops an excited Frannie notices that Peter is getting quieter by the minute.

“What do you think?” she asks, referring to some over-sized earrings in a shop-window.

“It’s hell…”, Peter murmurs. No, he is not quite following up.

“These earrings…. Would she wear them, do you think? Mom I mean?”

He takes them in. “Mhm. Don’t think so.”

Frannie realizes another thing. His limp is back. It’s weird. Outside with Flynn, he walks on for hours, but take him to a shopping mall…

“Wanna have a look at the gun shop?” she teases.

“What about some coffee?”

She hadn't missed the fact that he hadn't been a fan of her coffee so she's generous in her response.  “Sure. What about the ice-cream parlor and I get a sundae?”

 

III.

So it’s the ice-cream parlor.

Behind the counter: The Johnson girl. Peter sighs inwardly. Cheryl, natural born cheerleader, age 15. She has a squeaky voice and a hopeless crush on him.

“Frannie, soooo good to see you – Mr. Quinn - did you have a good week, Sir?”

She does it again. She stares at Peter, open-mouthed, awed, worshipping.

At the last sleep-over at their house, when the girls had come downstairs for a hot chocolate, Cheryl had been so obvious about her crush that even Carrie had commented only half-amused: "God, this girl is obsessed with you, Quinn. It’s fucking embarrassing!"

"Hi, Cheryl", Frannie goes, " one sundae for me with cinnamon, and my dad could do with a large coffee...”

"Jeez, I didn't expect to run into her, I swear," Frannie slants him a crooked smile when they sit down with their purchases. Peter rolls his eyes and takes a gulp of his coffee, clearly annoyed at how Cheryl had managed to _touch_ him when he handed over the money.

"I’d say it got worse after mom’s stupid suggestion about how to discourage her...”, Frannie says and shoves a spoonful of frozen yogurt into her mouth.

“How come everything is your mom’s fault these days?”

“But it was. She told me to let Cheryl know how weird you are.”

“What?! – What do you mean, weird?”

“Well… so that she might start dreaming about some pop-singer instead, you know…”

“I am weird?!”

“Come off it, dad… it was…. It didn’t mean anything…”

He shoots her another glance and sips some more coffee.

“Don’t do it.”

He doesn’t react.

“Don’t give me the silent treatment, dad. I hate that. You know I hate that.”

“So I am weird?”

“Fuck.”

“That’s five bucks for foul language, Frannie.”

“You’re unfair.”

“No I am weird, remember.”

“It was – the end justifies the means, right?…”

“What did you tell her about me, Fran? The way she keeps staring at me…”

He is right. Cheryl can’t keep her eyes off him, leading to some subpar customer service.

“You don’t know that. You can’t see her,” Frannie argues nonetheless.

“I feel it.”

“See. You’re weird. How can you FEEL someone is staring at you?”

“Well, I can.- What did you tell her?”

Frannie sighs. “I told her… about when we first met… I know it wasn’t when we first met, there was the night of grandpa's funeral … the one Aunt Maggie goes on about all the time…. But the first one I can actually remember…”

“Fuck me!”

“That’s five bucks for foul language…”

Peter draws a breath. “So what exactly did you tell her about – that day?”

"Just… in general… that you were... a soldier.... and …traumatized...."

"Traumatized?!"

There’s outrage in his eyes, and for an awkward moment, Frannie expects him to get up and leave. He has done it to her mom. Several times.

Before the twins were born, Frannie always feared they might split up. All that fighting and cursing and shouting… But then Marnie’s parents divorced, and those two had never had a single row in front of their daughter, so Frannie decided fighting might not necessarily mean that a couple would split up but that maybe they were just -… fire and water? –

He’s not walking out on her which is good even though it means: For her, there is no easy way out.

“What did you tell her, Fran?”

“Nothing really-“

“Can I get you something else, Mr. Quinn?” – Suddenly Cheryl is standing at their table, beaming at Peter, and Frannie sees a silver lining.

“How are you today, Cheryl? Busy?”, she inquires, intent on keeping Cheryl around for a few more precious minutes.

Peter interrupts: “Thank you, Cheryl, we’re fine… You've got a customer waiting…” She blushes, looking delighted because that knows her name, even said it aloud …– and dutifully leaves the table.

He folds his arms and keeps staring at Frannie. She loses her nerve.

 “About - those - people rioting outside of the house… How you were there to keep me safe.”

“That’s not something to brag about, Fran, it was – a fucking nightmare…”

“That’s five bucks….”

“…your mom nearly lost it… for a reason-”

“And _you_ were nearly shot…”

“Crap, I just fuckin-“

“That’s what mom said, and she does not exaggerate. Not about you…”

She had totally forgotten about that – incident.

Until a sleep-over at Aunt Maggie’s five months ago. Homemovie-Night.   An action thriller, a hostage situation, a shoot-out with a kid standing by, big-eyed and helpless, and it all came back to her. She called him up right away, panicky, breathless, locked up in the bathroom so the others wouldn’t notice. She always calls him because he tends to be available. Mom is at conferences and seminars – attending to  important work… Quinn also tends to give her less of a hard time. 

Not to mention it was about him and her foremost.

“Dad… You and me…. Before mom… considered… being with you… God I had totally forgotten… that _was_ you… course it was… that new flat in New York… mom was out… you were there… a friend to look after me, that’s what she had said… we were sitting on the carpet… having fun… hide and seek… then all of a sudden - there was this guy and you got hold of him and then another guy with a gun and you yelled at me to hide in the bathroom so I did… and I saw him hit you with that gun and…  I couldn’t lock that door and… I don’t know… there was shouting and gunshots and sirens...”

“Frannie … ” He sounded muffled. Slightly helpless.

“…and I heard them drag you outside and suddenly there was mom’s voice and she was screaming and I heard another woman and she dragged me away… I didn’t want her to, I was kicking and screaming I was so scared…”

The very next morning he'd showed up at Maggie’s, looking tired and vexed, he'd obviously driven up right after the phone call, and Frannie had clung to him as if for dear life.

“I’m ok”, she whispered, and, “no word to mom!”

On the way back, he told Frannie Carrie had to know, how he didn’t want anything kept secret from her.

“Apart from your smoking weed when you were at school, that is?” Frannie taunted and didn’t get why he smiled.

Today at the ice-cream parlor he doesn’t back off. “So you wanted Cheryl to think that I'm a nutter… on Carrie’s advice?”

Frannie nods, pleading guilty.

He sighs, and they sit in silence for full two minutes.

"I sometimes wonder who’s the girl in this family... and who’s the nutter…”, he mumbles. “Soldier... traumatized... how fucking romantic. No wonder she's started stalking me...”

“What’s that supposed to mean?!”

“She’s a fucking teenager!”

“Thanks a lot, so am I – and that’s another ten for you.”

“Yeah?” He gets up. “Guess I’ll have a look at those guns now… just to spite you."

Frannie is relieved: So he is all good again.

 

IV.

When Frannie comes along to the beach, icy winds notwithstanding, Peter has an idea something else might still be in store for him.

Throwing Flynn a tennis-ball to fetch, he thinks hard about how to get her talking.

“Do you remember the day we moved to our house here …I still see you coming downstairs, hair dyed…”

Fran grins. “Yeah… Jeez, mom got so angry…”

“Yeah… She was so stressed out. Two toddlers… moving the house… and her teenage-daughter gone rogue…”

She gives him a shrewd glance. “Do you know why I dyed it?”

“I can guess.”

“You think?”

“Yeah.”

Sometimes – not that often, but every once in a while - he gets the feeling she underestimates him. A quiet man, training a dog (and Flynn is a very well-trained dog), making things run smoothly, end of description.

“OK, dad, what have you guessed?”

“Around that time you started calling me dad. Just saying.”

She exhales. So his guess is right.

“You don’t mind me calling you dad, do you?”

“Course not. It’s – kinda nice.”

He throws another ball for Flynn.

“Do you know why I stopped calling you Quinn?”

“I have a vague idea…” As she doesn’t reply, he adds: “Some other kids made fun of it, right?”

“The day after the barbecue…  you came up to my favorite teacher and went “Peter Quinn. I'm here to pick up Frannie Mathison”… You always avoided stating you’re my dad for obvious reasons… or how you were related to mom…  I hated that… and this teacher, she gave me a shocked look … Cos she realized I used your surname…. Next morning first thing she asked was whether we had any _issues_ , me and you… so I told her mom also called you Quinn and then she – she wanted to know whether… you two were… together at all…”

“As if it was any of her business.”

“You don’t mind that she calls you Quinn?”

“Why should I. It’s my name, it goes way back, her calling me Quinn…”

“You always defend her… it’s pathetic, dad! She didn’t like you at first, you both told me, so how can you be ok with her calling you that …”

He is not willing to discuss his relationship with a teenager. He simply skips back to the previous topic.

“Kind of adds up…  We moved, so you figured it was a good opportunity to start afresh. I got that. New city, new school… mom and dad and siblings… a normal family life… dad instead of Quinn… dark haired dad, dark haired daughter…”

“If it was so obvious, why did you never bring it up?”

He is dumbfounded. “Should I have?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know… We never talk about stuff… not like other families….”

“That’s crap, Frannie, and you know it.”

“It’s not! You both keep things from me. Important things. You don’t trust me. You think I'm just a kid. But I'm not.”

“Fran… it’s not about keeping things from you cos you’re – what - sixteen…”

 _Sometimes it’s just so fucking hard to figure out the right way._ Considering what Carrie would agree on first and foremost.

_*_

The ugliest fight they ever had was about adopting Frannie. He'd wanted to, she'd refused outright. They nearly broke up over it. It was fucking hard to swallow. In case anything should happen to him, or to Carrie, they'd regret it. He’s aware.

Twice a year, they fight over Brody. On the evening before Frannie’s birthday and on New Year’s Eve. They fight over what to tell his daughter about her biological father. It is a disastrous custom.

“Carrie, you gotta to tell her. She’s entitled to know. It’s her fucking dad. She keeps asking questions – she keeps asking me, and whatever I say, it’s wrong. Either she’s pissed off because I am secretive, or you're pissed off because I'm a snitch. You two sort this out, for fuck’s sake.”

“Who the fuck are you to tell me, Quinn?! You of all people! You gave up on your son, so stop lecturing me on parenting issues, you fucking hypocrite!”

They're both right and they're both wrong. It is a touchy subject. They shout and they argue and Carrie throws plates and mugs and he sleeps on the couch until she shows up in the middle of the night for make-up-sex.

It can take days, even weeks.

*

“Why do you always do what mom wants? Why do you put up with her moods and with her nagging?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, Fran, so just leave it.”

“Do you at least still have sex?”

“I did not hear this question.”

“See? We never talk about stuff!”

“Stuff? You want to know about the sex life of your parents – that is fuckin´ inappropriate.”

“It’s not. All my friends know that kind of stuff about their parents. It’s important to know, I mean, we have to deal with it when you break up. It’s quite common that people your age stop bonking because they're bored and don’t care anymore and then, all of a sudden, someone new comes along and they have great sex and feel all young again and leave their families until the circle starts again… so I have a right to know what's the deal!”

`Bonking´... the precociousness of this lecture... - Peter needs a few moments to pull himself together – chances are, if he lets on his amusement, she's going to clam up like an oyster. He’s pretty sure that all of this is a red herring. A distraction.  Something else is on her mind, she simply wants to get him off-guard so that she can strike. In situations like this, he'd prefer it if his brain would stop analyzing everything. But it doesn’t.  
So he pretends to fall for her strategy.

“Even parents have a right to some privacy, Fran. I didn’t ask you about those hickeys two weeks ago, did I?”

She is slightly taken aback about him going on the attack, but far from embarrassed. “See- you noticed and didn’t bring it up. You just don’t care…”

“I do care. Of course I do. I just don’t want to – invade your privacy or – overstep the mark - and- OK then, who was the guy? What happened? Tell me all the juicy details, I am here to listen.”

“Who says it was a guy?”, she asks provocatively.  "And no, I'm not going to tell you. Still it would be nice if you showed enough interest in my life to ask.”

He gives her another one of his stares – sadness, exasperation tempered with ironic amusement.

“Wow, perfect Mathison behavior… no matter what, always keep the upper hand”, and he walks on in silence, mechanically throwing balls for Flynn.

(“If anyone really wanted to blackmail you, Quinn”, Carrie had taunted after one of their rows, “he wouldn't kidnap me or the twins or even Frannie… he’d have to kidnap Flynn. You sure love that dog…”

“You know what, Carrie”, he had hissed, still furious, “that’s because that dog fucking loves me. Unconditionally.”)

Flynn comes back with the ball, sensing the tension, rubbing her head against Peter’s shin, then bouncing over to Frannie, ears flapping, tail rapidly moving.

Peter stops, takes in the dog, takes in the girl. Right, he has to get her spill the beans… He grabs Frannie by the shoulders and pulls her to his chest, holding her for a few moments.

“I am sorry, I didn’t mean to treat you like _her_ ”, she whispers when he lets go, “it’s just…. why do you let us get away with it… ”

He puts a finger on her lips and slightly shakes his head. “We’ve come a fucking long way, your mom and me… believe me…. and I am so fucking happy we did…”

“Yeah but why is it always about her? _Her_ job, _her_ wishes, _her_ needs, _her_ -“

“I love her. So?”

It shuts her up.

They walk on in silence, Peter’s hand on her shoulder, her arm around his waist, Flynn circling them hoping for more balls to fly.

“Dad”, Frannie starts after some minutes of silence, and Peter feels his heartbeat accelerate, _yeah, now she is getting there_ , “I've made a decision she's going to be very upset about. Will you have my back?”

She can feel him freeze.

“See, we had this…. career opportunities week…. And….”

“Yeah, I remember… Saul paid us a visit afterwards.”

Shit… can’t be true, or can it?! That fucker had suddenly showed up out of the blue, all friendly and innocent, to introduce more havoc into their household?!

“So - he was dazzling  you kids with stories, right, Frannie?”

She doesn’t answer, and he recoils.  “You can’t be serious, Fran!“

“Why not? Mom worked for them, you worked for them – I suppose my real dad did and that’s why you're both so hushhush about him…”

“Your dad was not in the agency, not at all!”

“So what was he then? You knew him. Tell me!”

“He was a soldier, and she loved him, she told you. About everything else ask your mom. It is none of my fucking business.”

“Fine. I’ll find out anyway. And I’ll join the CIA. You’ll see!” He knows that all determined look on her face. The Mathison look.

“OK. OK, Fran. I've got the message. Break the news after college is my suggestion …”

“More hushhush-games, dad? Or do you think I’ll change my mind?” (Which is exactly what he's hoping) “Because I won’t, and that’s why I want you to tell her asap.”

“Me? Why me? It’s your decision and you're the one playing grown-ups here, so tell her yourself, young lady!”

He's scarcely finished the sentence when they both burst out laughing.  No, he's so not the right guy to get away with any “young lady”-admonitions…

“Nice try, dad”, she goes as soon as she is able to, “but _you_ gotta tell her. You know best how to handle her – much as I hate to admit it ...”

So that’s what the pancakes were about.

He sure hopes Carrie won’t shoot the messenger.

 

 


	2. Sunday Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carrie tiptoeing back into the house
> 
> Thank you koalathebear for betareading :-)

Carrie comes home on Sunday night, unannounced.  The plan was to fly back early on Monday morning and head to the office straight away. Less stress, more sleep.

But then… ah well….

She tiptoes into the house at two am, nearly tripping over Flynn who is dreaming wildly, her paws kicking the air. Not much of a watch-dog, that one…

Carrie takes off her shoes, steps into the kitchen to get a glass of tap-water. While she finishes it, she glances around and notices the “swear jar” (that they'd set up to try to restrain themselves in front of the kids) has ended up on the table, the lid removed and a lot of crisp dollar bills stuffed inside. She chuckles and puts the jar back on the shelf where it belongs.

In the twin’s room, she kisses sleeping Alex and Leslie "hello-I'm-back" and good night. They look deceptively like little angels. For a fraction of a second, Leslie stirs in her sleep, sighs, continues dreaming. Good.

Next thing she opens the door to Frannie’s room, just to check the girl is home and asleep, then closes the door right away so her daughter won’t notice and throw another fit about her “control-freak-mom”.

Having done her rounds on the children, Carrie tiptoes upstairs to the master bedroom. Of course Quinn has woken up, just propped himself up from the look of it, his hair a mess, his eyes drowsy, and she smiles at him. The one true watch-dog in this household. The only time she can slip in without him waking up is when he is seriously ill. Or drugged.

Which means it is always good to see him awake.

“Didn’t expect you tonight…” he murmurs, suppressing a yawn, “how come?” She sits down on the bed, embracing her knees. Tilts her head, deepens her smile. She can’t do this for too long without invoking awkward questions, but given he’s still sleepy and off-guard, she might get away with a few more seconds of shameless staring. She knows what every scar on this back feels like. She knows every square inch of his body, its smell, the warmth his skin exudes... every wrinkle on his face, the way his brows move and his eyes change color, from lighter to darker blue, depending on the light and his mood.

She feels completely at ease just sitting here and knowing that all of him is hers. It’s exactly what she came here for tonight – to savor … this …. She moves in on him, her right hand reaching out to touch his hair … now sprinkled with grey … pulling his head towards her so she can kiss him softly. Open-mouthed.

He sighs, she feels it more than she can hear it.

  
They go on kissing while his arms slide around her to pull her closer as she wraps her legs around his hips and slowly, dreamily presses up against his crotch.

The kiss continues while his hand unbuttons her blouse, she's wearing one of her pants suits, he likes her pants suits, they're so Carrie - bossy but beautiful.

She had taken off her jacket before entering the room, so it’s only the buttons of the blouse and the hooks of her bra that he needs to deal with before he touches her skin, the softness of her breasts, her sensitive nipples.  She shivers and it makes him feel both weak and aroused at the same time.  Still connected by the kiss, their mouths pressed together, and she tugs at his t-shirt and his pyjama bottoms.  Somehow they manage the feat of undressing without breaking off their kiss for more than a few short moments.

They shift on the bed, both naked now, still sitting… Carrie’s hand touches his cock gently, the smooth skin … he's ready, so she takes him inside her.  He moans, and there's something beautiful about how they are looking at one other when they finally break their kiss… They're eye to eye, full of tenderness, yearning, the thing they won’t mention…

It’s not about friction, it’s about facing each other. Facing what they are to each other.

So they sit there on the king-sized bed, upright, naked, caressing each other, slowly touching faces, bare skin at their necks and shoulders … Slowly, he starts thrusting, his hands on her ass to keep her as close as possible, and she starts making _those_ _noises_ and they both know it's going to be his undoing… It always is. The idea of making her feel this way simply blows him away. He breathes a low sigh and increases the pace and when they are there, he pulls her tight and lets himself fall back onto the mattress while holding her tight, so she ends up on top of him, shivering and crying out.

It takes her a few moments to catch her breath.

“Thank you”, she whispers in his ear, “I so needed that…” and she kisses his throat.  He tastes sweaty and salty and it turns her on, the thought of how he's had to work.  Literally - physically work to satisfy her.

“Anytime….”, he whispers back, his voice hoarse.

“Shit, Quinn, why do we whisper… We were pretty noisy before.”

“You were”, he says, “and that's so damn sexy… “

“That was… you are … intense…”

_God I love you Quinn, you know that, don’t you._

_Yeah._

She doesn’t say it. If she did, it would raise his suspicions.  
They stay quiet for a moment, his hand caresses her ass while he breathes against her hair. It’s one of those moments, those rare moments when everything feels perfect. Where they can savor the feel of the other and that feeling is enough.

Quinn’s respectively Frannie’s news are definitely not a topic for late-night bedroom-talk. Tomorrow is going to be a hard day, they should go to sleep right now - but there’s something he wants to find out before they both are dozing off.

“So, how was your conference, Carrie?”

She sighs. “The usual stuff…”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah -”

“Nothing unusual? Nothing – happened?”

A moment of silence. If she’ll pretend she has fallen asleep, he should worry…

“Actually… guess who I ran into”, Carrie mumbles.

“At the conference? Male or female?”

“Male…. You won’t be able to guess anyway. I certainly didn't expect it…”

He grunts something inaudible, his hand on her ass still making her shiver.

“Jonas. You remember Jonas?”

“Your boy-friend? Berlin-Jonas? Fuck me!...”

His hand stops moving . She waits for him to start with the questions. To ask the obvious. When he stays silent, she sighs and tells him anyway: “He’s married to this super-annoying American journalist he worked with at the Foundation. Probably for her visa. A match made in hell. She’ll boss him around, that’s for sure.”

She can feel him suppress a laugh and gives him a good-natured punch.

“Does it hurt your pride?” he wants to know, narrowing his eyes.

“Fuck you Quinn, why should it?! Jonas was – a very bad idea to begin with.”

“So no hard feelings he never popped the question?”

“And fuck you again, Quinn, how would you know whether or not he `popped the question´ to me, hm? … And that’s not how people do it these days… the girl waiting for the guy to `pop the question´… you are positively prehistoric!”

“Not true - I never did any of that kind of crap…”

“Yeah… – Why not?”

He is still inside her, which feels nice for both of them, but his hand has moved away from her ass. He puts it under his head, his elbow sticking out. “You think I needed yet another major fuck-off from you?”

“How do you know it would have been a major fuck-off if you never even dared ask me in the first place?” she says, her head on his chest, staring up into his eyes.

“Cos I fucking know you… remember the adoption-debacle…?” he says, his eyes lifting to the ceiling.

She props herself up. “Jesus, Quinn, you’ll never get over that one…. is there a pattern here – you’re not up to taking a no? – Syria, just mentioning….”

“Oh shut up, my little commitment-phobe”, he replies, bringing his hands back to rest on her body.  He moves inside of her slightly, and she clutches his shoulders, relishing the moment.

“You are _so_ wrong… Guess what, _I_ _am_ the one popping the question. Right now. Wanna marry me, Quinn?”

He doesn’t reply. But she can feel his hard-on returning.

“So I take that as a yes”, she states and starts riding him slowly and teasingly.

*

“So it’s not about Jonas, this proposal of yours?” he wants to know when they lie there again, spent and satisfied, still naked and tangled up intimately.

“Yeah it is in a way”, she has to admit. “It made me realize… how precious time is and … the things we have, the two of us… our family here… us… meeting him was surprisingly fine given that we weren't on the best of terms when we broke it off… but it made me remember the whole Berlin mess… God those years… I was … when you … and everything after…”

She's unable to speak coherently. Too tired, too upset.

They spend a few more moments in complete silence.

“Quinn - you and me, we’ve come so fucking far…” she starts, on the brink of tears, he can sense it and presses into her, eyes closed, embracing, holding her against his body. It helps, this kind of physical comfort, and she is able to manage a lighter tone: “I mean, I can come home in the middle of the night and get you all hot and bothered …that's not too bad for a pair of middle-aged homebodies who've known each other for almost twenty years…”

“Mhmh”, he mumbles, hoping she won’t regret all of this when he'll come up with _his_ weekend-news…

He nudges his face against her shoulder, his stubble and his warm breath softly tickling her skin. She sighs, and within seconds they both are fast asleep.

 

\- The end -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear reader, it's your interactive author again!  
> So, if this was a DVD, and you had to choose one deleted scene to be included, which one would you opt for?  
> 1\. Carrie running into Jonas  
> 2\. The Johnson girl having a go at Quinn  
> 3\. Quinn informing Carrie about Frannie's plans  
> 4\. ????


	3. An attempt at time-travelling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinn keeps his promise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Zeffy - the kitchen argument ;-)

People have different talents. Some are great performers, pretenders, liars. Others are not.

On Saturday before Christmas, when Carrie returns to their home, the house is eerily quiet. No kids’ voices, no bass-lines from a teenager’s playlist. The dog shows up and gives her a bored glance, then struts back into the kitchen. Which means this is the place to look for Quinn. But first Carrie wants to make good use of the lack of attention: She takes the collection of parcels upstairs, out of sight. They had promised not to get each other any Christmas presents, Quinn and her, only stuff for the kids, but a book or a mug or a new shirt don’t really count… Or a voucher for a night out at the new Indian restaurant in town. Anyway, if she wants to get her guy a little something, why shouldn’t she, and he better not complain!

The moment she enters the kitchen, she knows something’s up. A white shirt (ironed) on Quinn, the smell of citrus on his cleanly shaven cheek when she pecks him “hello I’m back” – yes, something’s definitely up.

“Wow, Quinn”, she takes hold of his collar, “what’s the occasion?”

“I need another minute or so - didn’t expect you so soon,” he goes, brow furrowed, and opens a drawer, obviously looking for something he can’t find. Carrie leans against the counter and gives him a once-over he doesn’t seem to notice.

“I told you I’ve become a turbo-shopper. And we mail-ordered most of it, remember? Where are the kids anyway?”

“At the movies. Christmas Disney flick.”

“And Franny?”

“She took them.”

“Wow. How did you bribe her?”

“I didn’t. She volunteered.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No. She was all gung-ho for them to see that movie. All self-sacrificing big sister.”

He gives her the briefest look of amusement, before he gets back to that drawer.

“Ah, the wonders of Christmas time.”

“Yep.”

She moves up to him, puts her hands on his waist, lets them work on his shirt in a pretty obvious attempt to get to touch some bare skin, her mouth getting close to his neck, her breath on his throat.

“So it’s just us here I guess…”, she says in what she wants to be her bedroom voice.

“Yeah”, and he carries on with his frantic and fruitless search, until her hands have reached their aim and make him startle.

“Fuck those are freezing”, he gasps, draws back and puts the shirt back into his trousers.  

“I forgot the gloves. What about you warm them up… we have the house to ourselves. On a Saturday afternoon. Hasn’t happened in ages.”

Quinn has given up on the drawer. Instead he opens the fridge and takes out a box of sushi from Carrie’s favorite sushi place.

“You’re hungry?”, and he busies himself with getting sets and plates out of the cupboard.

“Jesus Quinn”, she says, slowly losing her patience, “don’t ignore me! Do I have to drag you to our bedroom?”

She notices he flinches.

“Would be grand”, he says, “but… what I wanted us …  what about… a bit of timetravelling-“

“Timetravelling?” she echoes. “OK”, and expects a romantic follow-up.

“Yeah”, he says, his left thumb nervously rubbing his indexfinger, “say this is New Year’s Eve. “

“New Year’s Eve?”, she echoes, ”Where’s the champagne then?”  
“That’s-… I wanted us to talk about – things. Complicated stuff. So we better stay stone sober. Do me the favor. And no swear jar.”

It’s the “Do me the favor” and the urge in it that give her a shock.

 _Don’t,_ she thinks _. I’m gonna kill you if you come up with a pathetic midlife crisis-had-to-fuck-that-other-woman-story!_

He looks tight. Now, come to think of it, he had been looking tight those the last days. Ever since that week-end he was supposed to spend with the kids, her gone to one of many congresses, but back for a night of - whatever.  
She should have seen it coming. He was clearly distracted those last days. Not quite listening when the twins started arguing about who their favorite teacher was. Embracing her on his way out with a hint of something unreadable in his eyes… His thoughtful glances when he thought she wasn’t noticing. His quiet demeanor when looking at the kids. Like a guy who wants to burn those pics on his retina.  
She tries to keep the panicky feeling at bay. The whirl of thoughts. The paranoia. It’ s all paranoia, got to be, Quinn would never, never… God, why had she been so – careless… She could slap herself.

“So”, she starts, sounding as curt as possible.

“What about having”- his chin points at the sushi - “first-“

_Eat? Throw up more likely.-_

 “Fuck you Quinn, spit out what you got to say!”

 “Will you hear me out?”

She nods, feeling nauseous.

“You know, every New Year’s Eve we are fighting. So why not get over with it today. So we don’t have to ruin other people’s parties… and don’t have to start the New Year sulking …”

“What are you talking about?”

“You gotta talk to Fran about her father.”

For a moment, Carrie is too dumbfounded to speak. When she finally does, she croaks:

“What?”, relief flooding her system, “fuck you Quinn”, she goes, “you’re a bloody nuisance, you know that. And no thanks, I don’t want to be fed sushi to keep me from shouting and yelling.”

He sighs. So this is gonna be another of their infamous kitchen-arguments… He only hopes they’ll make up before Christmas. For the kids. Or at least before New Year’s Eve. For themselves. He got her a week-end at a lighthouse in Newfoundland, arranged the kids and Flynn to go visit Maggie (with a pang of guilt cos Flynn will be heartbroken to be left out…). It might not be such a good idea if they’re not even on speaking terms. Though, on the other hand…  He can’t help giving her a flash of a dirty grin. Which miraculously wins her over.

“OK then”, she goes and takes a seat, “let’s talk.”

 

Ten minutes later, they still haven’t yelled at each other (which is not too bad) or thrown any china. It doesn’t mean they agree.

“Quinn”, Carrie says and eyes the fridge-

“I’m not saying go and tell her he was a traitor or a terrorist or-“

She grimaces, trying to hide the hurt. “Now thanks a lot, how magnanimous!”

“or too many details but you have to give her something. A picture. A name.”

“Great idea, Quinn. Let me show you something…“- and she pulls out her cell. “The first thing the search-engines come up with if I type in Nicholas Brody is-“

She types and shows him –

Brody on the crane. Dead.

So she kept it in her mind. All the time. How could she forget. He feels a pang of guilt.

“I know this is fucked up.”

“Yeah.”

Carrie gets up and starts pacing the room. “I shouldn’t have told her anything at all. Nothing. Nothing about the soldier-stuff or about love or…. I should have told her that I wanted a kid, that I wanted her so badly but hadn’t met the right guy-” He doesn’t have to harrumph, she gives him a somewhat apologizing glance anyway- “or at least that’s what I thought, back then…  a sperm donation... and that I know it must sound gross and… selfish…”

If she wasn’t so upset, the thought would amuse him: Carrie, desperate for a child... a sperm donation…  
_good thing the kids don’t know too much about our past_ …

“… actually I still might. Have a heart-to-heart- and tell her I didn’t dare to tell her cos-”

“Carrie, are you out of your mind! She’ll find out and then she’ll be really pissed off. For a reason. No more lies, Carrie!”

“But you wouldn’t – I mean you haven’t… or have you… leaked anything?”

“Am I suicidal? Course not.”

“Good. I’ll figure something out.”

She slumps back on the chair and goes through her hair with this typical nervous Carrie gesture. “I need some time, that’s all. 18. When she turns 18… would be – appropriate, don’t you think.”

“That’s a fucking excuse, and you know it. Do it now, don’t put it off again. Doesn’t get easier. “

“Yeah, that is so fucking easy to say... What do you think I should tell her if she asks me about _your_ former job?”

“That is beside the point, and you know it. And anyway, I’m here to tell her myself, in case any questions come up.”

“Bullshit. I hate it if you speak to me like that.”

“Yeah, guess what, she wants to join the CIA.”

“What?” 

Finally. Finally she got the message. That this is urgent. That this is not his idea of making her life miserable but- She looks at him, her chin starts to wobble, hell he wanted to have some hankies within reach and forgot…

“Yeah. She told me and she sounded Mathison-dead-serious.”

“When?”

“The other week-end.”

“And you’re telling me now?! I came home that night – to talk to you – and you never said a word…”

“Talk? That’s not what I remember. Anyway, sorry for not making you freak out while fucking you.”

Shit. They’re back at it. Shouting at each other. He checks himself the very moment he realizes.

“Sorry. I should have told you sooner. But… you’re not the easiest person to talk to, Carrie, you know that?”

“You know what – it takes two to tango! It’s our fault. Mine. Yours. Ours. Mine. And yours with that fucking K-9-stuff she thinks is so… great… We…  didn’t get through to her… obviously. We have to make her see… She has no idea, she’s only a kid…”

“Carrie. She’s 16.”

“I get it, Quinn. At the agency, she’d find out about her father. That what she figures. She figures people there knew him.”

_And she’s right. You know she is._

All of a sudden, her energy is drawn, she looks pale and tired. She exhales. She gives in.

He takes her hands.

“Look, Carrie… Never thought I’d quote that shrink you made me see but… we have trust issues. You know we do. Me. You. And for a reason. It made us what we were… and why we were good at it. Agreed?”

She shrugs.

“You don’t want Frannie to be that distrusting mess we are, do you?”

“Speak for yourself, Quinn!”, she hisses, withdrawing her hands.

He keeps looking straight at her, unblinking, unsmiling. Dead serious.

She gulps. Her eye-lashes flutter. Her chin starts a jibber-dance –

He’s won.

“OK. OK.”

They sit in complete silence. He takes her hands again. This time, she lets him – no withdrawal, no lashing out.

“And now, Quinn? What do I tell her? Tonight…. I’ll do it tonight. No, tomorrow. Got to sleep it over. And think. And. What do I tell her?”

He shrugs.

“Not good enough. Prompt me. Write me a speech, and I’ll deliver it.”

“I’ve never been one for words. This is your business, Carrie. You’ve always made that perfectly clear.”

“I know, but - I really need you to have my back here.”

_I always have your back. You know I do._

He looks at her sternly, blows a kiss on her forehead, then gets up to get pen and paper, and as he crosses the room, he adds: “OK then, we’ll come up with a draft. Champagne?”


	4. K-9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Flynn. And the twins.  
> Which leads to some trying moments of domestic life.
> 
> Thank you koalathebear for betareading :-)

 

The first time a dog appeared on Frannie’s wish list for Christmas she was eight, all long, gangly legs and a red pony-tail.

Quinn nearly steps on something coming home one November night and swears softly beneath his breath.  Why hadn’t the girls switched on the outside lights?

He picks it up, a mint green envelope addressed to “Santa Claus”, recognizes Frannie’s handwriting, and as the envelope is not sealed, he takes out the letter. There's one mint colored page (strange choice of color for Santa by the way) with a self-portrait of the artist as a young girl - red curls, broad smile – and holding a puppy.  Said puppy has been circled with a marker and next to it, in capital letters, the word “PLEASE”.  

An efficient wish list.  He almost smiles , keeping the envelope and letter in his left hand, the bad one, while opening the door.

The house is completely dark.

Which puts him on alert.  Not high alert, more like – a medium kind of alert. Carrie’s car is in the car port.  It's way past Frannie’s bed-time – and all the lights are out?  The kind of situation that he constantly speaks about with the shrink they make him see.  Situations he shouldn't get paranoid about… situations that might look alarming to him but are entirely harmless when seen from a _normal_ person’s point of view.  Situations that do not require his pulling out a gun and sneaking around.

He doesn't have a gun at hand (a concession he's had had to make – no guns around Frannie), but a little sneaking won't hurt.

Silently he creeps through the hall, to Frannie’s bedroom. The obvious explanation is that chances are, Carrie's fallen asleep next to her daughter.

  
Nonetheless, he stays in the dark, eyes open, ears attentive - ready to attack. He opens the door silently.  Frannie's there, fast asleep, her arm over her face as if to shield it against - whatever.

Good.

He enters the room silently.  He knows better than to wake her up.  

No Carrie though.  
That is not good. Not good at all.

He can feel the adrenalin pounding through his system.

No way she would leave the house while Franny was sleeping.  
If someone has taken her, he would find signs of that. Of a fight. A hint. A note. Something. Anything.

He creeps back into the hall. Moves towards the kitchen.  
The dirty dishes from dinner are still on the table.  
He considers using a flashlight, but doesn't want to give himself away. His night vision will just have to do, even if it isn't what it used to be.

Stealthily he moves into the living-room.

Shit.  A shadow is sitting on the couch, in complete darkness…

“Fuck, Carrie”, he says and turns on the light, “you scared the shit out of me… ”

She blinks at him, she doesn't look sleepy, but she doesn't really look like… like she's really there.

“Everything ok?”

She shrugs and nods at the same time.

The plan was to hug her, but there's no way this is going to happen while she sits there like, like – like that.

So he takes a seat next to her, realizing that he’s still holding Frannie’s letter in his hand. He offers her the mint-colored paper. She stares at it, but makes no attempt to take it.

She looks worn out, he notices, puffy eyes, pallid skin. Positively sick, and the way she doesn’t speak, just keeps staring at the note, makes him worry even more. Shit, should he check up the status of her meds?

"Carrie”, he asks, voice soft, “you ok?”

He leans in to kiss her. With a tiny movement she avoids his lips on hers. Immediately, he pulls back. That’s something he still can’t take: Any sign of refusal. It makes him withdraw into himself and become detached and aloof.  It's because on the inside, he just can't fucking take it.  It gives him the worst kind of déjà-vu possible.

It takes a few minutes of silence before he manages to come up with a nonchalant remark. “What d’ you reckon, do we want a dog?", he asks, desperate to sound casual and relaxed while still holding onto Frannie's letter.

Carrie doesn’t reply.

“Could be fun.”

Carrie stays silent.

“I had a dog when I was a kid. For a while.” - He hasn’t dreamed about that dog in years, but now, come to think of it, it’s one of those things he should tell Carrie about. Wants her to ask him.

No chance she will. Her mind is clearly somewhere else. She bites her nails and looks right through him, into the dark beyond the window. It’s the kind of situation he‘ll end up sharing with this shrink they make him see. Every Tuesday, at noon. And once again he realizes how fucked up this is. He can’t talk about what he felt, the dark stuff, the good stuff, to the person that matters most, 'cause she doesn't ask and it scares the shit out of him that she might not care, that she might give him one of her exasperated “so what?”-looks.

He can’t bear the thought of her possible indifference, so he keeps quiet and has to take all of it to a woman who gets paid for it. A hooker for his soul. - _Fuck, this is_ \- He decides to really make an effort to talk to Carrie tonight, he’s got to tell her about the dog, but as he is still struggling to find the right words to get started, she seems to have come to a conclusion, she moves closer, gingerly sits down on his left leg. She squeezes his knee and looks into his face, vaguely uptight.

"It’s not a good time for a dog“, she tells him, then takes his hand and puts it on her breast.

He allows his hand to touch her breast.  Cautiously.  Tenderly.  Then he gives her a quizzical look. Is this an invitation or what the fuck is on her mind right now?

"Jeez Quinn.  You must be able to tell the difference, Quinn – it’s – huge!“

It’s clearly not. Carrie’s breast, small and as temptingly soft as ever.  It feels slightly … more substantial perhaps … He caresses it cautiously, her eyes lock on hers, and she murmurs:  "You've gone and knocked me up."  For the tiniest of moments there’s sheer panic in her voice.

Over the years, they've discussed why they shouldn’t have any kids together. Once or twice.  
She’s too old and there was also her condition.  He'd nodded, claiming that he was too fucked up anyway.

But now here they are.  She's pregnant and it's his fault.

He gives her a look smile of pure and unadulterated happiness , learning over to drop a kiss, light as a butterfly onto her face.

 “I love you”, he tells her.

No way the dog will be an issue this year.

***

 

The year after, Frannie is aware it doesn’t make any sense to put a dog on any wish list. They have two babies, that’s the best Christmas present ever, she gets told every day.

If Carrie and Quinn find the time, that is, being 24/7 busy with the twins.

They live in a kind of bubble. One baby ready – hunger stilled, diapers changed, put to bed –the other one needs attention. Everything else seems eerily unreal. The colors of the outside world become blurry.

Sometimes they nearly forget about Frannie. She’s trying. She’s trying hard. The apple of her mom’s eye for 9 years, and all of a sudden she's expected to be the dependable big sister. There are moments when her little chin starts to wobble with desperation because mom's reprimanded her for bringing the wrong bottle.

Little Alex is sickly right from the start. Much smaller and lighter than Leslie, a regular at the children’s hospital. Icterus, hip dysplasia, nasolacrimal duct too narrow – you name it, he seems to have it. Every time they think they've identified all of his afflictions, something new comes up.

No wonder he cries a lot day in night out.

Carrie postpones going back to work.

The day Quinn gets home early and finds her in tears, paralyzed, trembling, he hands in his resignation. He didn’t like this job at a security firm anyway, he says.  
It’s nearly true.

He develops special techniques to put the little ones to sleep: He sits one on his leg and moves it very, very fast, in a constant rocking motion.  It takes few minutes, and the baby gets drowsy, eyelids start to drop… the important thing is not to stop the leg jiggling too soon but to wait until the little leg-dancer is fast asleep and ready to be taken to bed – Carrie’s role, while twin number two goes through the very same routine.  
It works miracles.

Sometimes they joke how he could make a fortune out of this – the baby whisperer. Sleeping child or your money back.

It only works though if Alex is not ill. Therefore: not that often.

The day Alex is diagnosed with pneumonia, Carrie takes him to hospital and insists on staying with him overnight, Frannie climbs into the king size bed and cuddles up with Quinn, crying hot tears. He holds her tight.

It’s one of the best nights of his life. Only light sleep but not a single nightmare. Baby Leslie on his left, Fran on his right, and he knows he can keep them safe and sound. He has a task, he is useful, he has a place in the world.

Next morning, he packs up both girls to get a Christmas tree. On the way he decides to stop in front of the hospital to bring Carrie a decent coffee and kiss her and little Alex good morning.

When he comes back to the car, Frannie has unbuckled Leslie and holds her on her lap.

“She was crying”, she says before he has the chance to scold her. He figures Leslie hadn't been crying … she hardly ever does, as if she knows that Alex's given them something they can barely handle, so she is obliged to be sweet and easygoing.

He smiles at Fran: “You’re a great big sister, Fran!”, and she looks proud and happy.

 

The plan is to visit Maggie over Christmas.

He calls her on a morning when Carrie and Alex are at the doctor’s again.

“Hi Maggie”, he says, “it’s Peter. You got a minute?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not coming! I already ordered that huge turkey and Bill's gone and got two cots and -“

“No, all good, we’re coming. It’s just… oh and don’t tell Carrie I called.”

“Oh… okay.”

“We're having a tough time. Carrie's having a really rough time. Nothing to worry, still…”

“I'm not surprised.  Two babies… not exactly what she'd imagined would be her calling in life…. So, what’s new?”

His hand starts to hurt from the tightness of his grip on the phone.

“Look, Maggie. Please don’t bring up breastfeeding and-“

“Oh but she hasn’t given up on it, has she? Peter, it is vital for the immune system, especially for a fragile child like Alex and-“

“Maggie, fuck it! Listen – we're having a really rough time and it won’t be - helpful if you start – giving advice. Not helpful at all. Please just let it go ...”

There’s a moment of silence at the other end of the line. Fuck, so he's pissed off the only reliable relative they have.

“I see”, Maggie says with a sigh. “...Maybe Frannie wants to stay with us for the week?”

He closes his eyes for an instant. “Yeah, I think she would… that would be great. Thank you Mags.”

“Anything else you want me to shut up about?”

A moment of silence while he thinks hard.

“Our work situation.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“´Can you afford it` and stuff like that.”

“Can you afford what?”

“… not working…“

“Not working? What do you mean?”

“You don’t know…I quit….”

“Oh. What about Carrie? Is she - ?”

“We’re both at home right now.”

A break.

“Peter – _can_ you afford it? I mean …?”

“It’s ok for now.“

“Do you need money?”

“No!… Please don’t bring it up, OK? She's got more than enough to… let's just say she's very easily upset these days.”

Maggie sighs an “as if this was anything new”-sigh.

This year, they really can’t think about a dog.

*******

The following year though, the dog is back on the list.

They give Frannie other presents. Great presents. A week at a pony camp. Pink ice-skates. A state-of-the-art cell-phone so that she can call Mom and Quinn whenever she needs to.

Nonetheless - she sulks.

She helps Quinn set the table.  Maggie and her family are due to come over for Christmas dinner, it feels good to be the host for a change and not the guest. He tries to get through to her. “The twins are yet too small for a dog. They’ll grow fast, Fran, don’t you worry…”  
She pouts.

They receive a strange Christmas card – no sender, words of wisdom on it: “For a girl, a dog can be all you need. They protect you, they listen…” Carrie presses Quinn’s hand and smiles. “Next year?”, he whispers.

 

At the dinner table, it’s another episode of the “cheeky little twins”-show. For the first time, it's clear to Maggie exactly what her sister and Quinn are facing.

While the twins are supposed to sleep, they manage an escape, Rififi-style. Alex enters the kitchen and manages to get into the lower drawer of the dishwasher. He plays with everything he can get hold of ends up on the kitchen floor regardless of whether it’s clean or dirty, whether it’s porcelain, glass or melamine - or a sharp knife.

While the grown-ups start cleaning up and tending to him, Leslie takes the chance to secretly pursue that mountaineering career she seems to have set her mind on.  Stairs, chairs, every available part of furniture - nothing is safe.  They know that they have to pay close attention because some of her targets tend to topple over - with her still on them. Tonight, she exceeds herself and gives the Christmas tree a try. It leans, falls and proceeds to bury a shocked child under its branches.

So Leslie gets bruises, Alex gets cuts.

An average day, Peter tells her.

They run a lot, and fast, those twins, and of course in different directions. It’s endearing, it is fun to watch – and hell to take loving care of. Peter Quinn has a premonition that this is probably the most challenging time of his life.

Carrie and Quinn start thinking about moving. About other jobs. About a new house.

They don’t start thinking about a dog.

***

They’ve moved house. The twins go to kindergarten. Alex is stable- mostly.

The relationship of his parents is not.

In October, Maggie calls her sister to discuss this year’s Christmas arrangements.

“I have no clue.” Carrie sounds like she has a bad cold.

“You sound horrible, have you seen a doctor?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re sure? – OK then, you’re up to us visiting or would you rather-“

“I have no clue. Really. I don’t know… I don’t feel like celebrating. At all.”

“Course you don’t – it’s only October. What would Peter prefer?”

“No idea.”

“Are you going to ask him tonight?”

“He's walked out on me.”

“What? When? But why? What happened?”

“Not – literally. Just… that’s what it feels like. Look, I – I’m not up to talking about this. Another time….”

 “No wait – what do you mean, he walked out on you but not literally? Did he leave or is he still with you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Carrie – you make no sense!”

“Well he’s here but he’s also - not here. I don’t know. I… I've got a lot going on … I come home late. He’s already off to bed, or…”

“… then go and wake him up. It’s your room too.”

“He moved into the attic.”

“Oh. Since when?”

“71 days ago.”

“Jesus Carrie – and you accept that just like-“

“He did before. But this time… as soon as I get home, I'm exhausted … no energy left. Not even to argue."

 “That – doesn’t sound good.”

“I think he’s seeing someone on the side.”

“You've got to be kidding me! He’s taking care of the kids, so when is he going to have the time for screwing around?”

“There are enough lonely moms on the playground.”

“Jesus, Carrie – Peter adores you.”

The sound of a scoff at the other end of the line.

“OK. OK. You said you had a lot on your plate.”

“At work. Demanding stuff. Crazy over-hours.”

“And you can’t say no.”

“And I can’t say no. It’s tough enough, with only one income.”

“Then tell him to get a job as well.”

“I think he’s trying.”

“You _think_ he’s trying? You two really don’t talk much, do you?!”

 

 

The thing is:  Peter Quinn can’t find a job. And it gets to him, much more than he expected.  
He has interviews, some go well, others suck, but when it comes down to it, it’s always “We are sorry to inform you…. “ blablablah.  
He doesn’t get it, but it really gets to him. He’s a fucking gimp, that’s why. They have to finance a house, and it’s all on Carrie’s shoulders.

Not that she seems to mind. On the contrary. It gives her a perfect excuse to work crazy hours, overtime, Sundays.

So this is what neglected housewives must feel like, he realizes one evening after he puts the twins to bed, helps Frannie with her homework, and sits down to write a shopping list for the next day while Carrie texts that she's going for a drink with some colleagues, important networking ahead.  Does he mind?

He applies for a job with Academi. One of the companies he's never wanted to join, for a reason. They schedule an interview for him at very short notice.  He bribes the kindergarten nanny to take care of the twins for the day, yeah well, he is aware she likes him, the ever devoted dad.  She has a soft spot for his afflictions – although maybe just slightly more for his blue eyes and dimples.  He suggests that Frannie visits her actual best friend and rushes off.

Psych evaluation, in-field-test, cross-examination. He’s surprised at himself: He does well.

The standard procedure is to give him feedback within 48 hours, but the female recruiter asks him back in, offers a coffee and speaks with him off the record. She goes to great lengths to explain why they've called him at such short notice – that they've received recommendations from some members of the staff who had worked with him on prior occasions.

“Who?”

“I’m not authorized to tell you. Anyway, those sources sang your praise, and today’s performance was impressive.”

“Thank you.” Fuck, he’s there. He’s done it. He’s back in business.

“I’m afraid we can’t hire you though.”

“OK… I’ll wait, just call me when something comes up-“

“I’m sorry – we won’t be doing that. We’ve discovered some rather unfortunate details about your … health status. I’m sorry, Mister Quinn, but we received some intel that you’re a risk, and the last thing we need is bad press” and she shoves his file across the table.

Fuck, it’s all there. Footage from Berlin, plus speculations why he ended up there in the first place (and they are frighteningly accurate). Footage from New York – press clippings about the hostage situation in Carrie’s brownstone. The lake house and how an allied agent met her untimely death during his watch… The flag house follow-up.

“I wanted you to know. I’m sorry”, fuck why does she repeat herself, he's got the picture.

“Have you ever been in the field?”, he says, “things can … look very deceiving from the outside…“

“Let me be frank with you, Mr. Quinn: I wish I could hire you, but I can’t.  I can't – nor can anyone else in the security business. You either need a new I.D. or a job in a very different line of work.”

“OK,” he says, “thanks for your time anyway”, and he gets up to leave.

He tries to see the good in it –  it would have made his shrink proud…. So his file has been leaked - the bad parts. He takes a vow not to try to find out who’s to blame, or he might lose it…

On coming home, he’s glad he didn’t tell Carrie about the interview. Glad he doesn’t have to explain himself, admit the defeat, swallow more of her moto shit. Glad she can’t smother him with her pity. The worst four-letter-word of them all.

 

Right after that Academi debacle (that he never mentions to her) he takes refuge to sleeping on a mattress in the office up in the attic. The official version – the one for Frannie - is: His frequent spells of insomnia might disturb Carrie.

He considers giving up on shrinks. Too much hassle to talk to them. He’s sick of hearing how his paranoia is clearly taking over again, sick of the constant suggestions to _come to terms_ with things or try another medication.

The only thing that keeps him from walking out on Carrie is Frannie.  
Frannie has started calling him dad.  
He could (and would) take the twins with him, but Frannie… So he has to endure. A housewife, trapped in a doomed relationship for the children’s sake, that’s what he is.

His insomnia is back.  
He wonders whether she regrets being stuck with him. And the twins. Tries not to keep track of where she goes, tries not to muse about how much time she spends elsewhere, and obviously happily so.

One evening, when she breezes in after an office-party, her hair a mess, her eyes bright, he finally asks her. All casual, as if it is a joke. “Do you screw around?”

The very moment he hears the words, he knows he has fucked up big time. She stares at him, disbelieving. Or caught?

“Fuck you, Quinn - are you out of your mind? Are you pissed because I’m home late? Then yell at me and tell me next time you don’t want me to go, that’s how normal couples communicate.”

Her anger proves it to him: She does. Screw. Around. And he says so.

“Bullshit”, she goes and “do you think I haven’t noticed that you're the one who's walked out on me? Yeah, you’re here – but you’re not! Not with me! We don’t talk…”

“That’s fucking bullshit. We do talk. I told you about Frannie and her teacher who-“

“See? That’s what I mean. We talk about the kids, that’s all.  We're a parenting team for child-raising. We don’t even argue anymore.”

“So what is this right now?”

“When was the last time we kissed? Had sex?”

He doesn’t reply, just bites his lower lips unconsciously.

“When I come home, you’re always tired, Quinn. You tell me how the kids are going, then it’s back to all silent guy … turning in early. So what should I come home for? I know more about the private life of my secretary than I do about yours.”

“71 days ago”, he says.

“What?”

“Was the last time we had sex. And you’re also always tired.”

So at least he keeps count. She’s not sure though it is comforting.

 

He urgently needs a job. Trapped is bad enough – dependent is insufferable. So it’s another call.

He manages to steal, no borrow, Frannie’s I.D. out of Carrie’s bag, in case he has to sign her in, then they’re off on their very own clandestine mission. The twins stay with Maggie, Frannie enjoys a tour of K-9, while he goes for a business lunch. K-9, the four-legged explosives detection team, Labradors mostly, German shepherd, Belgian Malinois, will delight Frannie, he guesses.

*

On the way back from Langley, Frannie can’t hold her tongue. “Dad, did you know that they can distinguish 19000 explosives just by their smell? 19000! Dogs are so great!”

“Wow, that’s impressive – nearly forgot there’s so much stuff out there…”

“They can do all sorts of tricks, their handlers showed us. They know sit, heel, stay, speak – they start barking, if they hear`speak´, can you believe it?! -  they lay down… they are so smart. Dad, could you please talk to mom about a dog? Please?”

He sighs.

When they come home, Frannie has to tell Carrie right away: “Mom, Dad took me to the greatest place ever, it’s a dog unit and the dogs smell explosive and firearms and dangerous stuff, they are useful and cuddly and…”

“Now that sounds interesting”, Carrie smiles at her daughter, then turns to the twins who stumble inside, Alex in front, a bouncing ball of energy, “Mommymommy, Auntie Maggie digger!”- and his chubby hand holds out a bright orange sand-digger.

“Auntie Maggie? You went to Maggie's…?” and she throws Quinn a quizzical glance.

“Yeah”, he says, determined to play it cool, “I drove up to Langley.” Carrie needs a moment to take it in.

“Mom”, Frannie goes on, “it’s _such_ a cool place! Dad says you both used to work there, is that true?”

“Quinn – what the fuck?!” Carrie hisses.

The kids freeze. Why is their mother angry? They've had such a great day!

Quinn leans against the kitchen counter and folds his arms. A gesture his children will remember forever: Their parents arguing in the kitchen, and dad shutting everybody out with his folded arms and a challenging “So?”

Frannie, a born diplomat, tries a diversion – especially, as she really wants to keep talking about her new favorite subject: “That dog unit, it’s called K-9, I think that’s funny, Dad says it’s lame, but I like it. They are so cool, Mom, so cute and smart, those dogs, I want a dog so much! I'd always take care of it. Always. That dog unit was – fantastic. I just wish you'd come along.”

That kid is a genius, Peter thinks.

 

He braces himself for Carrie’s final outburst after the kids are off to bed.

“Fuck you, Quinn”, she starts, “how could you do this to me?  Did you meet that shithead Dar Adal? Did you? Fucking answer me, you traitorous fuck!"

 “Don’t you get anything?” he retorts and turns away, staring out the window, into the dark, expecting her next wave of abuse.  
Instead she starts to cry. Sinks down to the floor, a flood of tears, which comes as a shock. Fighting Carrie he can match, but crying Carrie…

 “I wanted us to do this right… and you don’t give a shit”, she sobs, and before she can utter another bit of nonsense, he’s sitting beside her, holding her, stroking her hair, determined to whisper words of love to calm her down (and also because they are true), but this is Quinn, the words just don’t come out of his mouth … it's the aphasia all over again, so their bodies have to sort this out.

Soft kisses getting hungrier, more physical, soft moans, a hand on a thigh, an arched back, hips pushing closer … the coupling is a little rough right there on the floor, both hurting and angry at one other but also sad, so incredibly sad because they just don’t know what went wrong - what happened to their happily ever after?  And while Quinn is fucking Carrie and hears her come, her cries and sobs and her openness, the way she gives herself right now, to him, right now, he realizes he can’t go on without her. The very thought that this might be their last time together. Ever. Is unbearable. It will kill him, and he can’t die, not with the twins sleeping next door. He quickens the pace, desperate to make her come again, desperate to make her feel that he gives himself to her as well, if she just takes over and holds him forever.  Carrie feels him come, waves of silent retractions, tears blur her sight and tears stream down his face, and she realizes they are two hopelessly pathetic idiots.  
“I won’t let you go”, she says, much later, still laying on the floor, holding him tight, “you won’t get away”.

His reply is a grunt, he pulls her close, breathes in the scent of her, licks the sweat from her skin, slides his fingertips across her skin caressingly.  Years seeing a shrink, and this is all of the communication he can come up with in a moment like that.

But she gets him. And he gets her. They are – their future.

 

A few weeks later, they plan to go on vacation in Mexico. In a fit of madness they’ve arranged to fly to Albuquerque, where Carrie is to attend a conference. Quinn's going to rent a SUV and cross the border with the kids, Carrie is to follow two days later. They plan to go on a number of excursions in Mexico, show Frannie some sites of interest, feed their faces with great food, relax in the sun, teach the twins swimming…  
“Aren’t they a bit too young for that?” Maggie suggests, as Carrie tells her of their ambitious plans.

Travelling as a single father with three kids -  a not particularly young man with two whirlwind toddlers and a pale, fragile red-haired teen - Peter Quinn gets all kind of looks – annoyed, admiring, concerned.  
It’s a thing women do. Not men.  
He receives offers for all sorts of assistance but accepts none of them.

When they arrive at their destination, the twins are delighted: There’s a pool with a slide right behind their apartment!  
Peter Quinn appreciates their enthusiasm but feels uneasy. He's aware that his perspective can be a little skewed but he's noticed the hookers, drug pushers and cartel-guys along the road.  Plus he has two toddlers in tow who can’t swim and there's a pool right behind their apartment.  
Frannie has only eyes for the stray dogs in the streets. And there are a lot of them.

The very next morning, a young bitch, hardly more than a pup, half-starved, stands in front of their apartment, just out of reach of Frannie’s arm, one eye blue, the other one honey-colored, wagging her tail.

Making coffee in the kitchen, Quinn watches Frannie talk to that dog, trying to make eye-contact, to coax the animal to come closer. Her attempts meet with failure.

A few minutes later Frannie comes in and starts rummaging through the fridge.

“Don’t do it, Frannie”, he warns.

“What do you mean, dad?”

“Don’t start feeding the dog.”

“But she’s so thin - I can count her ribs…”

“You’ll get her used to it.”

“That’s what I want  – I want to touch and cuddle her. She’s a cutie. Have you seen her eyes?”

“You shouldn’t.“

He folds his arms. So does she.

“Yeah and why not? Are you telling me they might be filthy and have worms and parasites, _Aunt Maggie_?”

“Because we're going to leave, and the dog will have to stay behind. If she starts trusting us, starts trusting people, she’ll be f- lost. In this country, people treat dogs – differently. You’ve noticed, haven’t you? Those kids throwing stones…? She will be less cautious, because she got used to us, and someone will hurt her real bad.”

_I’ve seen it, Fran. It is not nice._

“So you’re suggesting it’s better to stay detached… never admit love or being loved if you can’t guarantee it’s forever and a day?”

_Did she shadow or eavesdrop on his sessions with his fucking shrink?!_

“This is not about the philosophy of love, Fran, this is about a stray dog in Mexico. I’m saying if you start feeding her, she’s your responsibility. And as you can’t provide for her because we’ll be gone, you're better off letting her be if you don’t want her getting harmed in the long run. Feeding her might make you feel good for now but it is a selfish thing to do.”

Frannie gives him a look of utter disbelief. Anger with a hint of contempt. Puberty rears its head.

“Then why did you walk up to those kids and tell them to stop throwing stones if you don’t care about those dogs, dad?”

“What do you think, Frannie.  Did those guys leave the dogs alone because I talked to them?”

“Yeah, they stopped…”

“Bullshit. As soon as we were out of sight, the dogs were fair game again. Do you really think some Gringo telling them off makes the slightest difference?”

“Then why did you do it if you don’t believe in it?”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he just shrugs.

 

Carrie calls and cancels the vacation - something unexpected at work has come up (as is the rule with Carrie) – the follow-up at the conference blablablah.

Fucking great.

She promises she'll make it up to him. To them. She sounds so guilty and uneasy and confused that once again, she gets away with it.

After five exhausting days (two toddlers, one pool, one guy – and Frannie always busy with that dog, so no great help either), Peter Quinn packs up and drives car and kids back to Albuquerque.

On the road, Frannie is very quiet.

Peter Quinn touches her hand and tries a smile.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

She shrugs and looks out of the window. She’s nervous, thumps her leg, glances at the watch on the dashboard.

“How far to the border?”

“Maybe 40 minutes”, Peter says and pulls up at a cantina. “Last chance for authentic Mexican food!”

Frannie turns pale. “Please, dad, could we stop after the border?”

He gives her a surprised look. “Why?”

“The twins are just asleep…”

She doesn’t look at him.

 _Motherfucker.  
_ All of a sudden he knows what she’s up to. Shit. He should have known. So what now? Open up the trunk and finish it right away?

Her hands are trembling. She notices he notices and puts them under her thighs, sits on them to keep them from giving her away.

_OK – Drive. Don’t let on. Cross the border. Then let her do some explaining._

At the customs, he hands over their papers, charms the officer by using Spanish, smiles at her and drives off, wishing her a great day.

Ten minutes later, he pulls up at a parking and turns of the motor. A weird yelping sound is to be heard from the trunk.

“Where is she, Fran?”

“Who?”, Leslie wants to know from the backseat, obviously not asleep at all, “Mommy?”

Fran flushes, gets up and opens the trunk. She pulls out her bag, unzips it.  The dog with the blue and the brown eye tries to jump out and just get away from that dark and eerie place, yelping and kicking. She’d race away and be gone, if not for Quinn who takes her, holds her tight, strokes her head soothingly. She trembles, she helps, she reeks of panic and wet dog, but slowly, slowly she calms down.

The bag is a mess – the poor dog obviously tried to get out with all her might, biting, kicking, defecating.

“Where’s your stuff, Fran?”

“There was no room for it…”

He knows he should get angry and tell her what's going to happen now. How they are not supposed to smuggle animals into the country and into what kind of trouble it could have brought them. How he’ll take the dog to the next shelter. How she’ll have to save up to pay for new clothing.

The dog starts licking his hand. The bad one.

“Can we call her Flynn, dad?”, Frannie suggests.

So Flynn it is.


	5. First outer circle of hell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welcome-at-school night - another first for Carrie Mathison and Peter Quinn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt by busybee17, who'd wanted to read about a parents-teacher-conference.
> 
> Many thanks to ifiwereaduck for beta-reading!

“I’m Carrie Mathison, Frannie’s mom. She is very excited about going to school here, and we have high expectations. We’re open-minded and appreciate the opportunities for regular communication.”

Carrie smiles and looks around at the other parents from Frannie’s class, the two teachers, and the social worker.

“And your professional background is…?” the mother just opposite – lean, blonde, expensive clothing – wants to know.

“I’m with the State Department.”

One or two brows are raised knowingly. As was to be expected in CIA heartland. Just in time, Carrie remembers her promise to Quinn: That he doesn’t have to say anything, apart from hello if he comes along to share this unique experience: the first welcome-to-school-night at Frannie’s school.

“And this is Peter Quinn, my partner.”

Quinn looks up, looks around, making sure he holds everyone’s gaze for a few seconds.

“And your professional background Mr. Quinn…?”

“Military”, he says, the “ex” made perfectly clear by his haircut (or lack thereof).

The overgrown frat boy near the door takes his chance. “So, what’s your stand on red meat, Peter?” Quinn looks at him flabbergasted. “What?” “Well, this lady” – frat boy jerks a thumb at an impossibly perfect blowout near the window – “suggested the lunch should be vegetarian or no red meat at the very least. What do _you_ think?”

“I honestly don’t give a fuck”, Quinn says, and shocked silence fills the room.

***

_Three hours earlier_

“We’ve got to do this right.”  
Carrie never said it aloud, she doesn’t have to, but it is clearly engraved on her mind. The Welcome-To-School-Event. Frannie is a big girl now. The school, something private, something posh (and very far from anything young Peter Quinn ever set foot in), made it perfectly clear during the application process that it upholds certain _standards_.

 “I really want you to come along”, Carrie mentions as she rubs Quinn’s shoulder. The bad one. “Max will be over to babysit.”

So she already arranged for a babysitter. He doesn’t feel up to the task, any casual observer can see he’s not exactly presentable yet.

“I really want you to be there with me, Quinn.” So he nods.

Two hours later, they are on their way. Carrie has chosen his clothing and insisted on a shave. Still his appearance – a marine-blue button down - is somewhat casual, compared to the tailored-suit brigade in the room.

On the plus side: He’s one of only five male attendees (kids are still women’s responsibilities it seems): two of them a gay couple, and another one old enough to be a grand-dad or great grand-dad, “So leaves it to us to bring some testosterone to this all female war-zone”, the remaining guy, overgrown frat boy, says by way of greeting Quinn. He pounced on Quinn as soon as he entered the room, obviously hungry for some male bonding, handing out lots of smiles and winks, hitting Quinn hard on the shoulder in homage to his own joke… the bad one. Joke. And shoulder. Quinn flinches and grinds his teeth.

Carrie pointedly chooses their seats as far away from overgrown frat boy as possible. They sit next to the gay couple who has just volunteered to take notes, bending their heads over a single ipad, taking turns typing.

 _Ten minutes into the conference._  
  
The teachers did their introductions, now it’s the parents’ turn, and the first mom to share her expectations offers “a simple suggestion”. Why don’t they start teaching Mandarin as from year one? Kids that young will “simply pick it up”, and soon enough this “window of easy language acquisition” will be closed, which means they’d miss a great opportunity to give their kids a head start. ”I mean has anybody taken the pains to look at last years’ worldwide GDPs?” Well, she has. China is the future. So how long can they afford to ignore this fact and stuff their kids with Spanish, which is clearly the language of the poor and depraved _and_ makes no sense, economically?

At this point, Peter Quinn has realized two things here suck. The parents – and the seats. Fuck, he’s no 6-year-old, and he wonders whether anybody ever dragged a school to court for forcing adults to sit on dwarf furniture. A chiropractor’s nightmare (or, come to think of it: A chiropractor’s dream. Maybe even a conspiracy?)

The agenda isn’t keeping his attention. He starts getting antsy. Shifts his weight. Throws a glance at Carrie, who seems a natural at this, chin in hand, and familiar creases of concentration over her nose. She notices his unease, takes his hand and gives him a reassuring squeeze.

The global economics mom has finally stopped. The teacher has promised to introduce her suggestion to the board, “and thank you so much Ms. Lorey for your contribution. We encourage parents to make this school an important part of _your_ life as well. There’s always room for volunteer work – we need your help with the library, sports teams, choir. If you have other ideas, contact us. And now, please…“

The next mom to introduce herself is a yoga teacher, inviting anyone interested for free trials at her studio, and suggests the kids should have a yoga lesson at least twice a week, or even better, daily! And if it can’t be yoga, of course it could be something else: TM, Felgenkrais; burnouts are _such_ an issue in today’s rat-race, even kids are already on the brink of breakdowns, they need to learn to relax, they need to learn to read their body signals… Her impressive cleavage makes Quinn wonder about _her_ body signals.

Bored as he is, he checks out the classroom from his increasingly uncomfortable perch. Whiteboard – nice. Windows looking out on a park. A gallery of crayon self-portraits of the class on the wall. He can easily spot Frannie’s – a girl with a red pony-tail clinging to a larger-than-life Hop.

When he tunes in again, a debate about school lunch is on, or more precisely: A clash of cultures  is underway. Milk or not, that is the question. The same goes for poultry. And red meat. And eggs. And nuts. Somebody tries to shift the focus to “the real issue of today’s educational environments: What about the use of electronic devices …”

Quinn tunes out again and gives Carrie another furtive glance. She seems attentive, so what’s wrong with him, why can’t he listen to any of this bullshit?

He half listens to the University professor mom delivering a fiery speech on the U.S.’s special obligation to Latin America, a poorhouse in our own backyard, and a large percentage of our own population …. totally out of the question to neglect Spanish…  


And to the dentist who makes a pitch for fluoride salt…

  
And to the lawyer mom, who fights for her daughter to join the mediation team, which is “unfairly” entrusted to only third-graders on up. Her daughter is wise beyond her years and this school is letting her gifts whither…

Her rap only deepens his mental escape, so much that he completely misses out on the gay couple being in perfect complement of each other; one starts the sentence, the other finishes it and vice versa. All perfect harmony and love.

He only gets out of his funk when it’s Carrie’s turn to speak.

“I’m Carrie Mathison, Frannie’s mom. She is very excited about going to school here...”

***

On the way back, they drive in silence at first.

“I’m sorry”, he finally offers, “I shouldn’t have come along. I’m not the right guy for this.”

She starts to giggle.

“On the contrary, Quinn – you were the only one _not_ bullshitting. And that teacher had the hots for you.”

“She did? Really? Which one? The- thep>

He searches for the right word and shakes his hand in frustration.

“That you have to find out for yourself.” The Carrie-way of saying “You’ve got to pick up Frannie a lot, Quinn.”

He smiles. And even though she’s driving and shouldn’t do this, she leans over and gives him a peck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This silly little piece was written before 6.12, when such things still made sense.


End file.
